


The New World

by CorditeQuill



Series: Live Again [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Gen, Leadership, Minor Furiosa/Max Rockatansky, Minor Violence, Nux Lives, POV Third Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Present Tense, Rape Recovery, Sexual Content, Slit Lives, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Virgin Nux, War Boy Culture, War Boys Showing Affection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorditeQuill/pseuds/CorditeQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who killed the world? Maybe the Sisters will never know. But, they have to live in the new one they've created with Furiosa. A world that needs healing from Immortan Joe, where War Boys question their purpose and the wastes are still a violent place. While dealing with that, the Sisters find they also need to learn how to live free lives.</p>
<p>When Nux finds his way back, Capable realizes that a few days in the War Rig hasn't prepared her for the reality of loving someone else. Furiosa must handle the mantle of leadership, something she never wanted. Toast is challenged in a way she never thought possible when faced with an angry War Boy thought dead. The Dag prepares for motherhood, anxious of what the baby's legacy will bring. And Cheedo must learn who she is and if she is really fragile.</p>
<p>One thing is for sure: Fury Road did not prepare them for the challenges and joys of freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New World

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of what was begun in "Live and Die and Live Again." It's going to be a long story, written and posted as time permits. It's going to be a slow build in some respects and will get a higher rating in future chapters. Just a warning that the ex-Wives will be dealing with their past experiences with Immortan Joe, so possible trigger warning. I tried to stay consistent with what was presented in the world through the movie and the comics, but some flourishes had to be made for the story. Enjoy! :)

Capable’s been through a lot in her years. She feels like an old lady, sometimes, but then she remembers the Vuvalini and realizes she has a long way to go before she’s truly old and experienced.

Some days, that realization makes her relieved. Some days, it makes her tired.

It’s only been four days since they came back to the Citadel. Four days Capable has thought she should be happy. But, she cries a lot...she didn’t know victory would taste like ashes in her mouth.

“It’ll be fine, child,” one of the Vuvalini says, when she catches Capable sobbing quietly in the Vault. Capable hates the Vault, all the Sisters do. They’ve redecorated, wiping away the graffiti (a sad reminder of loss, as Splendid Agharad was the one who did that as a parting gift to Immortan Joe). They’ve added more green things, took away a lot of the furniture, but kept the few books. And they don’t sleep there anymore; they have a separate room for sleeping. It keeps the nightmares to a minimum.

Really, they would destroy the whole place if it wasn’t for the pool. Such a luxury shouldn’t be lightly destroyed. There isn’t another like it in the Citadel.

They did destroy Immortan Joe’s quarters. They burnt his things: his bedsheets, his clothes, his furniture. They only kept his books, although he didn’t have many. He was a piss poor reader. They bricked the smegging place up, and good riddance. Furiosa and the Sisters know there are many dark places in the Citadel that will need to be cleansed, but this is a good start.

And yet...and yet…

Still she sobs, even after the Vuvalini’s kind words. And the elderly lady pats her on the shoulder, her wrinkled face sympathetic and soft.

“I don’t know how to stop!” Capable wails after a sobbing, choking minute.

“Why stop?” the woman answers. “You’re grieving.”

_Grieving,_ it is a word Aunt Ginny used. It was the word she’d taught them when Agharad had howled in rage when her sprog had been taken away and then lamented,  _“I didn’t even want his filthy seed! I didn’t want his sprog inside me! Why am I like this…?”_

“Grieving.” Capable nods. Yes, she’s grieving for Splendid Agharad, who could not see this day when the Sisters walk freely along the Citadel halls — leaving and entering the Vault as they pleased — but she’s also grieving for…

She could laugh. A Wife grieving for a War Boy. What a joke. How had it happened? But she is not sorry for it.  _Nux._ Yes, he was truly a gift in that harsh few days of escape. And to think, she’d been happy to push him out of the War Rig the first time she’d seen him, as he frothed chrome paint at the mouth and shouted Joe’s perverse religious nonsense.

“Does the pain get better?” Capable asks. She does not know this kind of grieving. Few of the Wives had viable sprogs. Hers never lived longer than a few months in her belly; she always hemorrhaged them away in a sea of red. Same with The Dag and Toast, and Cheedo had been untouched.

It was one of the reasons Splendid Agharad was the favored one. More than half her sprogs were born. Capable didn’t know how many she’d had; she never talked about it. She also never mentioned Wives before her, ones that had fallen out of favor.

“It gets...bearable,” the Vuvalini says, softly. “Soon, you won’t notice it at all unless you stand real still.”

_Wonderful._ Capable manages to smile and thank the woman.

She knows she’s being a burden. The other Sisters are focusing on the future. What does the Citadel need now? How to make it a viable home? How to bring it back from the darkness that was Immortan Joe’s rule? They, with Furiosa leading them in her quiet way, plan and talk and plan some more. They must grieve too — and sometimes Capable catches their eyes red-rimmed or the lost, tragic looks they try to hide. But, there’s been so much sadness and darkness, she knows all the Sisters are trying to put on a brave face for each other.

This is victory, after all.

_“Feels like Hope,”_ his voice whispers during these dark moments, and a part of her wishes they were back under the stars when she was nestled against his chest, his warmth enveloping her, and for once she wasn’t afraid. For once, touch didn’t make her cringe. And he had been so gloriously alive, her strange War Boy.

But he’s right. This is Hope, this is what it feels like. And for him, she will make it flourish.

But, there’s still the deep, dark, endless nights when Capable doesn’t feel Hope. She feels Fear, and the nightmares run rapid through her mind. Sometimes, her dreams are full of a monster who waits until she is asleep to come and claw at her skin until flesh is ripped, hanging off her in curls, as she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds while begging for mercy. Sometimes, the monster transforms into something less subtle: Immortan Joe. And he curves over her, his hot, dessicated body pressed against her, looking into her eyes with that power-hungry smirk.

_“Ah, Capable,”_ he whispers as he tightens his hold on her hips, his face mask muffling his voice until its husky and heavy in her ears.  _“You know you’re my second favorite, don’t you?”_

Sometimes, the dreams are of powdery white skin, and rough scars under her hand. A voice whispers her name in her ear, and it sounds awed and shocked, as if she’s something precious he stumbled upon but didn’t expect. She’ll look up and see the most blue eyes. He’ll say,  _“Capable?”_ and smile that uncertain smile that made her heart pound like a dying engine. And she’ll reach out to touch him...but she never does.

Maybe those are the most cruel dreams of all.

This night is particularly bad. Primed with nightmares. Capable jerks awake, feeling sweaty, old flesh against hers. Hearing the  _puff-puff-puff_ noise of an air filter system. Feeling the prickling sensation of ill-kept fingernails against her skin.

She jerks the sheet off her bed, nearly falls out herself, and looks around wildly until she can be sure she’s not —  _oh gods, please never again_ — back there. Back in the Vault, with her Sisters only a room away to hear her distress.

But no, she’s in their new room. They have taken a large room on the same level as the Vault. This new one is big enough for all of them to sleep, each sister with their own bed and mattress and sheets, a true luxury. There are many windows, bringing fresh air and sunlight. Nothing in this room feels like captivity.

Furiosa chooses to sleep elsewhere, somewhere more private.

Having the Sisters close is usually a blessing. When one of them starts screaming from nightmares, the others rush to her side to soothe her. But, tonight, Capable doesn’t want to feel any hands on her or hear any words. She looks around desperately, but it seems she did not scream this time. Her Sisters all sleep peacefully in their own beds, ringed around the room haphazardly.

Capable knows sleep will be elusive, and she really doesn’t want to risk going back to sleep and facing Immortan Joe again, so she slips out of the room and makes her way through the dark halls. A part of her wishes she could take the labyrinthine hallways to the ground and simply walk in the desert, but right now that isn’t safe.

The lower levels of the Citadel are now housing some of the Wretched, who find corners and rooms for themselves sheltered from the beating sun. They’ve mostly sequestered themselves to Tower Three, as if they cannot fathom a better life after so many years as the Wretched. Of course, the slave labor has been freed, as well, although so far they listlessly wander the same tower unsure of what to do with themselves.

The clean-up has just begun. Capable knows this. There’s a long list of things the Sisters and Furiosa have mentioned: abolishing the caste system, integrating the War Boys into a working society, re-education. Furiosa has mentioned that aqua cola will be an equalizer, rationed fairly. Same with the green things growing high above. Until all that happens, Tower Three — and maybe even Tower Two, where the middle-class live — is too dangerous to wander late at night.

Capable walks through the halls of the upper Citadel, Tower One, like a restless ghost. Now that most of Immortan Joe’s family is gone, it is strangely quiet. Mostly, it is just the Sisters, Furiosa, Vuvalini, and the Milk Mothers that keep house in this area. As a result, Tower One is safe.

At the top is the balcony, were Immortan Joe used to make speeches and dole out small amounts of aqua cola. Now, Capable goes there herself and rests her palms on the carved rock balcony. Before her stretches the desert, and Fury Road winds towards Gas Town. Further away, a small lighted dot in the horizon, is the Bullet Farm. To the west, like an arch rising in the sky, are the cliffs they had raced through so desperately.

_Was that only a week ago?_ She can’t believe it. It feels like a lifetime ago. The stone is rough under her palms, grounding her in the present even as the pinpricks of unease and fear from the nightmare cling to her skin. She can smell the pungent scent of her sweat, and she considers a dip in the pool except it’s in the Vault.  _Can’t go there right now. Just can’t._ Instead, she tips her head back and stares at the moon and the stars. She thinks about that night out near the salt flats.

If someone had told her she would escape Immortan Joe just to lean against a War Boy’s heated body, she would have laughed outright.  _Be touched again by a man? And a War Boy, no less? Never...never…_

Except...well, he had been different, hadn’t he?

She murmurs his name into the night, under those stars, thinking about satellites picking up shows and remembering the feel of his arms around her.

“Nux,” she whispers, and feels his name float out into the darkness, maybe floating to the stars.

_A show for everybody._

She hopes he has found his Valhalla. She’ll even pray to the V8 for that.

Tears prick her eyes and, now, in the safety of the darkness, she allows her heart to squeeze painfully as she remembers Nux’s face. His scarred lips, which had felt strangely appealing as they had grazed her cheek in that frenzied kiss — a touch she hadn’t realized until it was over and she was watching his back as he excitedly waved around the cut chain and ran toward the tree.

_Stupid War Boy, why did you die?_ She thinks, even though she knows —  _knows,_ from the bottom of her heart — he had sacrificed for  _her_ . She hopes he sacrificed for their freedom and not because it was a War Boy’s duty to die.

She remembers what she had told him out on the salt flats:  _“I’m glad you chose a different manifest destiny than dying historic.”_ Oh gods, it hurts so much. Capable’s hand presses against her chest, as if her heart is trying to leap out and she has to restrain it.

She barely saw his lips move as they drove away from him and Rictus Erectus screamed like a monster. Yet, even though her sight had not been good enough to ascertain what Nux had said to her in his last moments, she knew. Somehow, she knew.

_“Witness me.”_

And she had, hadn’t she? He had had a historic death on Fury Road, just like any War Boy would want. So, if anyone went to Valhalla, it would be Nux. He was probably there now...laughing with whatever pleasures are provided in that afterlife. Capable does not believe in Immortan Joe’s precepts, but at this moment, she wishes with all her strength that Nux is happy in Valhalla, just like he wanted. Let Valhalla be a place of peace, conflict free, where Nux would just drive.

“Oh, my War Boy,” she murmurs, her face wet with tears. She half-heartedly brushes them away.

For a few moments, she watches the lights blinking in Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Smaller lights, probably rock riders’ fires, flicker along the cliffs. Once in a while, something moves out in the desert. A black speck.

Moving closer…

Capable frowns, blinks away tears, focuses.

Something black and small, moving toward the Citadel. It must be fairly close if she can see it, and it looks human. A Wretched? Or someone new, hoping this huge edifice in the wasteland offers refuge?

Capable leans out over the stone balcony, her hair fluttering in the breeze, obscuring her view in crimson until she angrily pushes it behind her ears. But, she can’t make out the speck. It only interests her because it’s so odd to see someone out in the wastelands surrounding the Citadel at night. The Wretched live there — those who have not moved into the lower tower — and, raiders and other people who may harm a wanderer.

There’s something, though...something about that speck that makes Capable’s heart beat quicker…

_Stupid, what are you hoping for?_ She chastises herself, but then the next moment hears Nux’s voice again in her memories:  _“Feels like Hope.”_

She strides away from the balcony, following the hallway down to Corpus Colossus’s domain, in the Control Room. Right now, it is empty except for a sand-filled mattress piled with a few War Pups. In the old days, one of the higher ranking War Boys would have night duty, and the War Pups would standby in case they were needed to relay messages. But, with the change in management, so to speak, nothing has been decided yet. Night duty has fallen off, sharply. Probably not smart, especially if word got out that Joe was dead and Furiosa, a woman, and a bunch of ex-Wives were the new faces of the Citadel.

Corpus Colossus was given the choice to die like his brothers and father, or to accept the new management. He had chosen life instead of Valhalla and still guards the telescopes and spyware during the day. During the night, he stayed in his room.

Now, except for the soft snores of the War Pups, who still hadn’t accepted they were no longer slaves to the old regime, the room was silent. Capable walks up, unhindered, to the telescope that spies out into the wastes.

It takes her some angling and searching before she finally finds the speck that has interested her so much. When she finally finds and identifies what it is, her breath stops. Hell, her heart may have stopped. She rears back, disbelieving, staring wide-eyed at the telescope as if it may all be an illusion. She bends again and checks.

She sees him, as if he is walking out of her very dreams, except he looks ragged and tired and  _terrible._

She whirls away from the telescope, her emotions too tangled to decipher. Action, she needs action. She runs to the War Pups and shakes a few awake. They look at her blearily, take in her wild eyes and the fact she’s one of the ex-Wives, and stiffen.

“Lower the platform!” she hisses. “I’m going outside!”

“Wha—?” one of the War Pups says, confused and shaking his head.

“Damn it, wake up and lower the platform!”

“Outside is dangerous,” another War Pup says, rubbing his eyes.

“I don’t care,” she answers. “Just do it!”

She springs over the now waking huddle, half-runs through the halls, her breath harsh in her ears as if she’s already been running through the wastelands. She’s barefoot, her linens loose around her body. She doesn’t care. She knots them a little tighter as she skids through the hallways and comes to the platform. She hops onto it, feeling cold metal on the soles of her feet. She looks towards the Control Room, sees the glint of the telescope lense, and makes a gesture for her to be lowered.

Waits…

Waits some more…

_Damn those War Pups, they better do it!_ She thinks, and a moment later, just as she’s considering jumping off and heading back to yell and threaten, the platform gives a giant shake as it lifts. She grabs one of the chains to keep herself upright as the whole thing swings out over the expanse and slowly lowers into the courtyard, where before war cars would have been parked, waiting for the call to raid. Now, they are kept in the garages below ground and the courtyard is empty except for oil and guzzolene stains.

Some of the Wretched sleep in the more sheltered corners, and she sees wide eyes watch her as she jumps onto the ground and races through the open, stone arches. Her breath is coming in great, puffing heaves now and in her mind she’s just chanting one word over and over:  _Please, please, please…_

She thinks this is surely a mirage. Some desert trick. Some gods laughing at her from up high. She runs and runs and runs, her linens flapping behind her and threatening to tangle in her legs. She cuts to the left, off Fury Road, over the first dune, her pace slowing significantly as her feet sink into the hot sand. She is gasping for air now, and a rivulet of sweat meanders down the back of her neck.

As she crests the dune, she sees him. There’s no white powder on his skin now, even though it’s still pale in the moonlight. His head, dotted with dark stubble, is tipped low and his shoulders are hunched as he staggers along. One foot drags through the sand, but somehow he keeps his balance as he takes one step after another like a shambling, re-animated corpse.

“Oh!” Capable gasps, unable to help the sound. It’s such a wretched noise, filled with all kinds of things.  _Feelings_ .

And to her surprise, he hears it. He stops, jerks his gaze up, and then he sees her and stills—completely. Stills in a way that Capable never knew War Boys could do, with all their manic energy. Stills and just looks at her with those wide, guileless eyes that had so captivated her in the War Rig long ago. Or not so long, after all… was it really just four days since she watched the War Rig explode in a fiery ball, with her War Boy still inside?

“ _Oh,_ ” she says again, this time a strangled moan, as if someone is pulling out her guts.

She launches the rest of the distance over the sand, nearly falling, feeling the sharp granules against the skin of her soles. She opens her arms and drives them both to the ground, pulls him into her embrace, and holds him tight.

He gasps in pain, and she feels shivers racking him. Her War Boy is so injured… About to apologize, she draws back, only to feel his arms tighten around her. He murmurs something against her hair, but she can’t make out over the roaring drumbeat of her own heartbeat.

Could she be so lucky?

He smells like oil, guzzolene, smoke, sweat, and desert dust. A strange, heady combination that just confirms he is alive — blessedly alive — and this is  _not_ a mirage. She feels slickness against her skin, smells the hot metallic tang of blood, but it takes a while before she pulls away again, aware of his injuries.

He looks very weak and weary. He is dirty, bruised, stained with blood. Red, angry patches of skin have been burned to blistering. His eyebrows and eyelashes are gone, burned away. A cut on his cheek has bathed half his face in red, his lips are chapped. She doesn’t draw back to check his other wounds — she knows there will be plenty — only holds him and convinces herself he is  _alive_ . He looks at her with awe and shock, that same expression that she remembered only a few hours earlier and grieved she’d never see again.

Finally, she helps him back to his feet and holds him upright with an arm around his waist. He is thin, and his eyes are feverish. She will take him back, care for his wounds, and thank whatever gods The Dag would thank that her War Boy is alive. And maybe even the V8.

He licks his chapped, bleeding lips and whispers, “Capable.” His voice is thick and croaky.

She smiles, gently cups his cheek, and stares into those sky-bright eyes. “Nux,” she replies. “Oh, Nux. Welcome home.”

He relaxes a bit under her touch, searching her face, drinking her in, probably like she is doing to him. He finally says, as a smile widens on his mouth: “Knew it. Feels like Hope.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is something vastly different from what I usually write (and not only because it's in present tense). Please let me know what you think by reviewing! Thank you!


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